They’ve started over so oftentheir hands know the feel of dawn—coffee cooling on the railing,heart set to carry on. They don’t talk much of wisdom,they just mend what’s torn and lean—their knowing lives in doing,their faith in what’s unseen. They plant the same small garden,though frost may have its say;they trust the sun to find them…

Is the air lighter—or am I only wearyof holding my breath? Is that a glow in the window,or a trickof wantingto believe again? Something moves—not enough to name,just the faint suggestionthat silenceis listening back. I can’t name it—a hushwith a heartbeat,a beginning stirringwhere I’d fearedonly endings remained. Is this hope?It might be.I’m not sure—but I find myselfhopingit is.